


Vantablack

by Lidsworth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bad arguments, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt No Comfort, elrond regrets everything, maglor is delusional, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Elrond hits Maglor where it hurts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/post/150459911244/summary-elrond-hits-maglor-where-it-hurts-you#notes) =) 
> 
> I wanted to go into a more darker aspect of the relationship between maglor and elrond, and came up with this. As usual, i'm my own beta, so mind the mistakes. Please comment and tell me how you felt about it, i'm always open for critique btw =)

“You are _not_ my father. Do not try to control me as if you are!”  
  
Elrond’s words rip through Maglor like a hot knife to butter, and within moments, the anger which had consumed him due to their argument mere seconds ago shatters at the words his “foster-son” snarls at him.

Elrond’s fury, now replaced with a gut jerking guilt, melts away immediately at Maglor’s hurt expression. The Eldar looks away in shame, eyes avoiding Elrond’s gaze as the magnitude of what he had stated settles in.

Maglor _knows_ he is not their father. He _knows_ that they are not his sons, and that they never will be. He is delusional, as his brother has told him many times before, but a small part of him liked to believe that the boys were as well, that the played into the father-son role and _enjoyed_ it as much as he.  

But Elrond, ever the sharp, has reopened a wound that Maglor thought long since closed.

The half-elf himself stares in complete shock as he looks upon his foster-father, who’s slumped body mirrors the turmoil within his soul. A million colors paint his face in less than a minute, until suddenly, he looks like an old tree, weighed down with a hundred pounds of snow and ice, ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

Maglor looks tired. As if all the energy has left his body.

“Father, I didn’t mean that. Please, forgive me.”  
  


In a fluid motion, he moves towards the older Feanorian, arm outstretched to caress his cheek, and brows furrowed in an apologetic manner. Yet Maglor turns his back to him before he can touch him, and Elrond is left to gaze upon dark hair and tense shoulders.

“ _Don’t call me that,”_ Maglor’s plea is barely above a whisper, but Elrond hears it as clear as he did his own disownment towards his father not a minute ago.

“But..but you—“  
  
“No, Elrond. I am not _your_ father and you are not my son,” he turns quickly to face the Peredhel , a kind of sad rage darkening the light of the trees in his eyes. Yet his lip quivers, and his cheeks glisten with tears. At his sides, Elrond notices how deeply his nails dig into his palms and wonders if he has drawn blood.

“You are the son of Earendil and Elwing, it is best that neither of us forget this.” Maglor is beside Elrond quickly, brushing past him in a swirl of blue robes and dark hair.

Elrond slumps directly as he leaves, falling atop of the bed.

 _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!_ Elrond thinks to himself as he lay backwards atop of the stiff mattress, so unlike his soft one, and stares at the cracked ceiling. _What a manipulative bastard you are, using what hurts the most against him. Over what? A petty argument?_

The fortress will have to brace itself, supposes Elrond, for another bout of Maglor’s depression.

There will be no music to warm the halls, no dancing to lighten the mood of the soldiers. No baking from the kitchen, or laughter that Maglor’s very presence brings with him. Elrond wonders whether he will become so ill that he’ll be restricted to his bed, or if he will leave the safety of the fortress, and disappear to Eru-knows where for months.

Either way, the absence of Maglor in both soul and body will certainly see the entire fortress of Himring and its inhabitants no doubt noticing the absence of joy, and it will be all Elrond’s fault.

“Father…” he whispered silently, curling into a ball atop of the bedsheets which smell vaguely of Maglor, “please, come back…I’m sorry.”


End file.
